Restoration
by euphorbic
Summary: As a form of therapy, Sam suggests that Steve help Bucky restore a WWII Harley Davidson WLA. It all goes well, until it doesn't.


This was written for Chadekelevera's birthday which was a few weeks before the release of Civil War. Thus it was briefly canon compliant.

* * *

 _Restoration_

The old WLA turned out to be in worse condition than Steve thought it would be. All the plastic and rubber parts were done for and finding new ones was only possible because Tony had plenty of engineers (and robots) that were more than willing to manufacture them.

Tony had suggested they do more than a rebuild, that he'd be happy to whip up a complete redesign that would make the vintage motorcycle more efficient, better for the environment, and far far sexier than the original designers had had in mind. Steve reminded him that this wasn't his and Tony's project; it was Steve and Bucky's project.

Sam suggested the project after a long and very hard talk about Bucky's mental health. Quite a few of the vets he knew got into a variety of long-term projects, some even went to automotive tech schools when they got out of the service. Taking a battered and neglected old motorcycle and turning it into something special again was a good metaphor for personal growth after long term trauma and he suspected the familiarity of the old technology could even jostle some of Bucky's old personality into place.

When it arrived the old Harley was in worse condition than Steve thought but that turned out to be a feature rather than a flaw. Working with the motorcycle was good for him as well as Bucky. Studying up on and restoring the bike together was proving miraculous. Steve thanked his lucky spangled stars that Sam made the suggestion; it seemed to awaken bits and pieces of Bucky's personality that were buried deep within the broken and bombed out bunkers of his memories. The HD WLA (affectionately dubbed 'Betsy') was of their time; a relic that felt the advance in time in a way they had not.

"Okay, Buck," Steve said, moving a pan from beneath the engine, "I think the oil is done draining. You want to hold the frame while I pull the engine?"

Bucky looked over from the solvent tank where he was holding one of the WLA's Linkert carburetors in his mechanical hand and cleaning it with a wire brush in his gloved right. He didn't look impressed. "You really think that's done draining? Hotshot like you ever drained a motorcycle engine before?"

"Who're you calling a hotshot?" Steve replied and walked over to the tank just to push a lock of hair back behind Bucky's ear. "Last I checked it was only the couriers, radio techs, and guys on leave using motorcycles. Rest of us had to make do with Jeeps."

Bucky turned off the solvent flow and put down the carb and brush. As he peeled the glove off his flesh hand his metal one found itself wrapped up in a clean rag.

Part of his mission, as far as Steve was concerned, was making Bucky feel more human and that entailed loving on the metal as much as the rest of him. He took his time cleaning the solvent from Bucky's hand; even ran the rag between each of his fingers. It was intended innocently, but Steve realized quickly it was easily an act with sensual undertones. Not that either of them minded, but in a workshop, right next to a solvent tank wasn't the best place to start something.

"If I could feel that like a normal hand," Bucky said quietly, "I bet things would get indecent pretty quick."

Steve kept his gaze down on Bucky's hand. "I wouldn't say indecent, but I guess the postmaster general would."

"Believe me," Bucky replied, "I don't intend to take pictures of us doing anything supposedly indecent and send them through the mail."

"That's a relief," Steve said and looked up through his pale lashes to see if Bucky was smiling, even a little bit. "It's not illegal anymore, but considering my mail is monitored, I'd prefer to keep things just between you and me."

"Can do." Bucky pulled his hand away. There was a slight tug, barely perceptible, at the corners of his mouth. It could have been an echo of Bucky's former wry smile. "Let's get that engine out."

"Yessir," Steve replied.

The engine was more awkward than it was heavy; were it not for their enhanced physicality not even Bucky would have been guaranteed pulling it alone. Unlike a car, the motorcycle transmission was part and parcel of the engine and it made the whole shebang incredibly unwieldy and complicated to remove from the frame. Still, Steve thought as he pulled at the engine in its steel nest, it was good for the pull to be complicated and good to work on their teamwork.

The first two attempts didn't go well; the engine kept catching on the frame. In the end Steve had to pick up the engine and Bucky had to maneuver the frame off it to separate the two. With several feet to go to the bench and the engine hugged to his torso Steve felt the cool wet of old oil seep through the material of his shirt. Undoubtedly it was getting all over his jeans and all over the floor, too.

"I don't think the oil drained," Steve said with a sigh and moved more quickly to the work bench where he'd set up four blocks of wood to set the engine on. Unfortunately he hadn't anticipated not being able to see the blocks with the engine obscuring his vision.

"You think?" Bucky was quick to join him. "What a mess; some things never change. Bring it here and I'll help you set it down, unless you got x-ray vision along with all those muscles."

Steve was about to make a sarcastic remark in reply when his heel slipped through the oil; his leg went forward and his torso went back. The engine's weight started to bear him toward the floor. Bucky seized one of Steve's biceps and pulled him up, but overcompensated and tipped him toward the bench instead.

The engine came down on the bench hard. The impact rattled some of the hardware hanging on the wall, but it landed on the blocks remarkably precisely and far more softly than Steve expected.

"Nice save, Buck."

But Bucky didn't reply. His expression was slightly pinched and his eyes fixed on the bottom of the engine. Steve assumed they'd either broken it or the oil was still pouring out all over the place. Maybe even both. Careful of his footing with oil al over the floor, Steve spun away to their roll of Pig-mat and ripped off several sheets of the oil-absorbing towel.

As expected there was oil everywhere. Steve ripped pieces of mat off the roll and dropped them over the spills, but when he got back to Bucky, Bucky remained staring at the bottom of the engine. Steve came around the engine and followed the direction of Bucky's gaze.

The engine wasn't broken; Bucky's right hand's fingers were caught between the engine and the blocks of wood. Under most circumstances it probably wouldn't have mattered; Bucky was impervious to most blunt trauma but Steve wasn't sure he didn't slam the engine down harder than he thought.

"Bucky?" Steve asked. "Bucky, I'm going to move the engine. You okay with that?"

Bucky said nothing, he stared down at his fingers.

It was possible Bucky was having trouble with flashbacks or any of the many other complications that came with the intense physical, psychological, and emotional abuse he'd suffered over the decades. Sometimes Bucky had moments where he didn't know who he was or if anything was even real. Sometimes he started conversations in Russian. Sometimes Bucky broke out in cold sweats while he slept.

Slowly, speaking low but clear encouragement, Steve tipped the engine back off Bucky's hand. Bucky didn't move his hand. Gently, Steve picked it up out of danger and set the engine back down.

For once, Steve's hands were far dirtier than Bucky's, but he lifted the crushed hand up and took a look at the affected fingers. They didn't look broken, though the flesh underneath Bucky's smallest fingernail was already growing dark with blood. The rest of the fingers were skinned and could bruise, but there was little wrong with them beyond the superficial.

"Hey, Buck, it's me. It's Steve. You're with me and you're okay." Steve lifted Bucky's hand up and rested it on his chest above the oil stain spreading on the lower half of his shirt. With his other hand he again brushed the same wayward lock of hair off Bucky's face. "You're with me, Bucky."

Though his gaze didn't really turn away from the same spot as before, Bucky started to blink again. Then his mouth opened on a cracking voice. "Steve? I was just thinking; what if I lost my other arm?"

The words constricted Steve's throat and clenched at his heart; he swallowed several times. He placed one hand over the hand on his chest and slid the other from Bucky's hair to the back of his neck. It took little effort to pull them closer together but eventually Bucky's eyes focused and he looked at Steve.

"We get you another arm," Steve said. "I know Tony's been weird lately, but he'd do it and maybe it would feel finer details."

"It isn't the same," Bucky replied and looked away. "My fingertips can feel fine details, but it isn't the same."

"Maybe not," Steve said. "I don't know how to answer that; I hope you can answer it yourself one day. But I do know one thing for sure."

Bucky turned back. "What's that?"

"We each only need one arm to catch the other."

Bucky nodded slightly and chewed at the inside of his lip. After a moment's pause he lifted his left arm and laid his hand on the back of Steve's neck, too. He pulled Steve closer until their foreheads met and the hands on Steve's chest were trapped between their bodies. "You know what I know for sure, Rogers?"

Steve smiled and looked down at his and Bucky's hands flattened between their chests. "No, Bucky, what?"

"A drain pan is a much better place to drain oil than your clothes."

A chuckle came up Steve's chest where their hands could both feel it. "Yeah, you got me there, pal."

Perhaps the joke was a deflection from a serious topic, that of their mutual affection and a loyalty strong enough to overcome decades of conditioning and mind control. Steve could allow it. There was no doubt in his mind that the message was getting through; Bucky had yet to move the hand on Steve's neck or the one over his heart.

* * *

Factoid: Many WLAs were abandoned in Russia after WWII where HD enthusiasts couldn't get to them to use them for parts or otherwise modify them. Probably Natasha hooked them up with this specimen.


End file.
